PK 






I 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




ill ill 
014 546 9612 ^ 




EDUCATIONAL, PUBLISHING COMPANl 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO SAN PRANCISO 




i ENGLISH CLASSICS I 

^ {Teodts that are Accurate and AutherMc).^ y/. 
frtV ADDISON. Sir Roger de Coverley. ' " , - vt/ 

JI5 ARNOLD. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. f f 

k BACON. Selected Essays. S 

'^ BYRON. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. vf> 
^ The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems. ^^ 

/|S BROWN. Ra3 and Hig Friends. , vl/ 

jjj BURKE. Speech on Conciliation. ^ 

^|\ An Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful. ;Xf 

/»> BROWI^ING. Pippa Passes. . v»/ 

^1^ Cavalier Tunes, The Lost Leader, etc. ^K 

/ti CHAUCER. Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. xf> 

JjJ COLERIDGE. Rime of the Ancient Mariner. j^ 

/»> CARLYLE. Essay on Burns. <♦/ 

^J^ Heroes and Hero-Worship. I. % 

ifjf^ Heroes and Hero-Worship. II. vf/ 

^> COWPER. The Task and Other PoEMg. vjj 

^ DRYDEN. Palamon and Arcite. vf/ 

(h Alexander's Feast and Other Poems. vjJ 

^ DEFOE. Robinson Crusoe. ^jj 

/»> DICKENS. Cricket on the Hearth. \g 

Jj^ Christmas Carol. Jjj 

/j^ DE QUINCEY. Revolt of the Tartars. .: vi^ 

jjj EMERSON. Nature Essays. jjj 

^♦> ELIOT. Silas Marner. vj? 

QS EWING. Jackanapes. vV 

<iii Story of a Short Life. $• 

4v Ml/ 
^\ FRANKLIN. Autobiography of Benjamin Fr.\n-klin. >^ 

jj5 GASKELL. Cranford jjj 

J GRIMM. Household Tales. jg 

$j\ GOLDSMITH. Vicar of Wakefield. ^ 

fTHE Deserted Village, The Traveller, w 

The Good-natured Man. JJ 

^ HAWTHORNE. Texts complete without notes. vg 

J Twice-Told Tales. I. jjj 

% Twice-Told Tales. II. 0^ 

9^ House of the Seven Gables. I. vj? 

J House of the Seven Gables. IJ. ■ SlJ 

% Wonder Book. ' ^ 



ENOCH ARDEN 



BY 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 

M. A. EATON, B.A. 



EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

BOSTON 
New York Chicago San Francisco 






sL 



n 



ot 



LISRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 
MAY 17 I90r 
^P^rreht Entry 

CLASS (X XXC, No. 



Copyrighted 

By educational rUKLISHING COMPANY 

1906 



^ INTRODUCTION. 

Wordsworth pronounced Tennyson decidedly the 
greatest of our Hving poets, and although this, un- 
fortunately can no longer be said of him, whatever 
rank future generations may assign him among 
Victorian poets, he is certainly the most representa- 
tive of them all, the poet who has most fully ex- 
pressed the intellectual and spiritual difficulties of 
our time. 

Like his great predecessor, Alfred Tennyson was 
born in the country and passed most of his life in 
the most secluded haunts of nature, with books for 
his chief friends and companions. His father and 
mother were both well born and both were singularly 
gifted in many directions. They lived at Somersby, 
a tiny village of Lincolnshire, where the Rev. George 
Clayton Tennyson was rector of the church. Here 
Alfred was born, August 6, 1809. 

His early life was well adapted to develop the boy's 
sensitive poetic nature. Somersby is in the midst of 
a beautiful country of sloping hills and fertile valleys 
bevond which the Lincolnshire wolds, "wide, wild 



4 INTRODUCTION 

and upen to the air," stretch away to meet the shining 
waters of the Huinber. 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening towers, 

To mingle with the bounding main. 

His brothers and sisters were all congenial and 
began to make poetry before they could talk, and 
many a delightful evening was spent in the rectory 
in making rhymes and romances. When only five, 
Alfred is said to have shouted to the wind, when out 
in a storm: 

I hear a voice that's speaking in the wind. 

Thus he grew up a shy, sensitive boy, who lived 
chiefly in a world of his own imagination, and 
whose greatest delight was poring over the pages 
of Byron and Chaucer, or tuning his pipes with 
Theocritus and riding to battle with the Knights of 
the Round Table. 

Alfred and his brother Charles were sent to a 
grammar school at Louth, a town about twent}- 
miles from Somersby, and here they published to- 
gether a httle volume of poems, called "Poems by 
Two Brothers," a book remarkable for its promise 
rather than for its achievement. In 1828, Alfred 
entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where at that 



INTRODUCTION 



time many men, afterward celebrated, were in resi- 
dence. 

Although so shy and reticent, Tennyson showed 
that rare capacity for friendship which is often found 
in men of his temperament, whose very limitations 
make them more than usually dependent upon the 
appreciation and sympathy of their chosen comrades. 
Among these friends were numbered Thackeray, 
Spedding, Lord Houghton, Dean Trench, Frederic 
Maurice and, dearest of all, Arthur Henry Hallam, 
a young man of rarely beautiful nature and great 
promise. 

Here Tennyson won a prize for his poem, Tim- 
hiictoo, and in 1830 published a thin little volume of 
Poems, Chiefly Lyrical, which attracted much atten- 
tion in the literary world. These poems were chiefly 
studies in color and the skilful use of meter, but 
they show rare technical excellence and a feeling for 
sensuous beauty akin to that of Keats. In this same 
year Tennyson's father died and he left Cambridge 
without taking a degree. At this time he is described 
by Edward Fitzgerald as "a man at all points, of 
grand proportion and feature, significant of that 
inward chivalry becoming his ancient and honor- 
able race." 

Two years later, in 1832, another volume of poems 
appeared in which the real bent of Tennyson's mind 



6 '■ INTRODIXTTON 

and geniiis is first apparent. In it he shows himself 
no longer the skilful juggler with words and meters, 
nor a mere ]~)riest in the temple of beauty. The 
Palace of Art, which appeared in this volume, con- 
tains his real philosophy of art, in the allegory of the 
sinful soul who surrounded itself with everything 
that was fine and beautiful and appealed to its 
iEsthetic enjoyment, only to find that it had made a 
glittering prison for itself, through w^hich at last, 
stricken with remorse and self loathing, it hears 
dimly the cries of a suft'ering world, calling it to a 
new life of service and of lo\e. 

A year later the great grief of his life came to 
Tennyson in the sudden death of Arthur Hallam, 
which cast a great gloom over these years of the 
[)oet's life and forced him to consider the great 
problems of death and immortality, reflections 
which later bore fruit in In Memoriam. For the 
next ten years the young poet lived principally in 
London, publishing little, but meditating much and 
learning lessons from the great world which can 
never be gained in the closet, however keen and 
original the thinker. He made frequent journeys 
into the country, and wandered over Cornwall and 
Surrey, talking with the farmers whom he met on 
the road, or reading Greek seated on a wavside 
stone. 



INTRODUCTION 7 

These years of silence and preparation were broken 
in 1842 by the publication of two volumes of poems, 
including most of the earlier work, which the poet 
thought worthy of Ijeing preserved, and giving evi- 
dences of increased power and develo])ment in such 
poems as Ulysses, The Two Voices, Morte d'' Arthur, 
and Locksley Hall. The book was received with 
great favor both by critics and public and his popu- 
larity was assured. 

From that date Tennvson worked with great in- 
dustry, and the events of his life are chiefly the pub- 
lication of his successive volumes of poems. In 1850 
he was made the successor of Wordsworth as Poet 
Laureate, and in the' same year he published In 
Memoriam. After his marriage with Miss Emily 
Sellwood, he made his home at Farringford in the 
Isle of Wight, a beautiful spot, which "seemed like 
a charmed palace with green walls without and 
speaking walls within. There hung Dante with 
his solemn rose and wreath; Italy gleamed over 
door- ways; friends' faces lined the w^all; books 
filled the shelves, and a glow of crimson was every- 
where; the great oriel drawing-room window was 
full of green and golden leaves, of the sound of 
birds and of the distant sea." 

Here and at his home in Surrey the poet lived in 
great seclusion, but ever with an ear keenly alive to 



8 INTRODUCTION 

all that was taking place in the world without. As 
the years passed, he recognized more and more the 
limitations of science and the results toward which the 
scientific thought of the day was tending, and while 
he accepted a universe, the result of evolution and 
law, he insisted more and more that it is spirit and 
not matter which is the eternal reality, that the latter 
is but a shadow of that 

Dim, far off, divine event 

Toward which the whole creation moves. 

He attained to a beautiful and tranquil old age, 
and death came to him at last as a friend and found 
him ready. He died with his finger still marking 
his favorite passage in Shakespeare's Cymbeline, 
the moonlight making a w^hite radiance upon the 
earth, borne on the bosom of 

Such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound or foam 
When that which drew from out the boundless deej), 

Turns again home. 

In his life as in his work Tennyson was supremely 
a poet. His very person stirred the imagination. 
"One of the finest looking men in the world," 
declared Carlyle. "A great shock of rough, dusty- 
dark hair; bright, laughing hazel eyes; massive 
aquiline face, most massive, yet most delicate; of 
sallow brown complexion, almost Indian-looking; 



INTRODUCTION 9 

clothes cynically loose, free-and-easy; smokes in- 
linite tobacco. His voice is musical metallic — fit 
for loud laughter and piercing wail, and all that 
may lie between; speech and speculation fine and 
plenteous: I do not meet, in these late decades, 
such company on a pipe!" 

/ Perhaps the most marked characteristic of Tenny- 
son's poetry is that tendency which also marks the 
age in which we live. It is comprehensive and en- 
forces a wide range of thought and feeling, rather 
than intense and passionate. It is marked by subtle 
intellect, by tenderness and sympathy with many 
forms of life, and has "gathered all the elements 
which find vital expression in the complex modern 
art. yie is equally happy in portraying the *' North- 
ern Farmer," and stately Camelot, in telHng the 
simple story of Dora or singing the charge of the 
"Light Brigade." His style shows a wonderful 
adaptability, and he uses it with an instinct little 
short of marvelous. He can sing with the freshness 
and simplicity of Wordsworth, or clothe the stories 
of Arthur in verse as stately and perfect in structure 
as Milton; he can write the most exquisite lyrics 
like those in In Memoriam, and express intricate 
thought in verse so subtle that it seems transparently 
clear; he has the rich beauty of Keats with a tender- 
ness and grace and a power of restraint which Keats 



. lo INTRODUCTION 

had not; he possesses as keen a sense for the rhythm, 
the ebb and flow of verse as Swinburne, but with 
him the music of speech is never an end in itself, 
it must never weaken man's power to wrestle with 
the problems of life nor detract from his moral height. 
Tennyson's strength is not the strength which comes 
from reticence, nor the rugged simplicit}- which we 
find in Wordsworth; it is rather that of the man 
who has the capacity to feel all the complex forces 
at work in modern life, and a style, singularl}- 
adapted by its subtlety and elaborateness, to give 
them expression. 

As one of his critics expresses it: "He yokes the 
stern vocables of the English tongue to the chariot 
of his imagination, and they become gracefully bril- 
liant as the leopards of Bacchus, soft and glowing as 
the Cytherean doves. He must have been born with 
an ear for verbal sounds, an instinctive appreciation 
of the beautiful and delicate in words, hardly ever 
equaled. Though his later works speak less of the 
blossom-time — show less of the effervescence and 
iridescence, and mere glance and gleam of colored 
words — they display no falhng off, but rather an 
advance in the mightier elements of English spefech." 

It is this intimate sympathy with his age which lias 
given Tennyson a popularity so much greater than 
that of other modern poets. His power of observa- 



INTRODUCTION n 

tion was keen and true, and while he loved nature, 
he was more impressed by the laws which underlie 
her processes than Wordsworth, and the cruelty and 
indifference of the physical world and the "war of 
Time against the soul of man," are plain to him. 
Yet he is by no means the poet of pain and sin, for 
while he accepts the discoveries of science and the 
ugly facts of life, he is not disheartened because man 
ever seems to 

Move upward, working out the beast, 

and life is full of riches so long as men cherish in 
their hearts noble aspirations, and faith that all sys- 
tems and laws, could we but "see to the close," are 
but working out a divine and beneficent purpose. 

And the ear of man cannot hear. 

And the eye of man cannot see; 
But if we could see and hear, this 

Vision — were it not He ? 

Thus in an age of agnosticism, when the dis- 
coveries of science and the truths of rehgion seem 
at war, he bids man look into his own soul and 
find in its struggles and longings the witness of 
something higher and holier than himself: 

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 

Will be the final goal of ill, 

To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood. 



TNTRODUCTIOX 

That nothing walks with aimless feet, 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void 

When God hath made the pile complete. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

Enoch Arden was published in 1864 and was 
Tennyson's first serious work after finishing the 
Idylls of the King. In this and other poems of the 
same period he turns to the simple life of the English 
people of to-day and pictures their joys and sorrows 
with a sympathetic pen. Like Wordsworth, he 
shows us the dignity and l)eauty of the humblest 
lives Hved in the fear of God. 

Yet even when he deals with very simple themes, 
like the story of Enoch Arden .^ the humble fisherman 
anA sailor, he invests the plain details with a magic 
cunning of words that quite transforms them. One 
has only to read the description of Enoch Arden 
plying his very prosaic trade of selling fish, or that 
of the tropic island, to understand this. But Tenny- 
son was not a mere master of musical words. His 
mind turned naturally to noble and lofty themes. 
His Vjeautiful imagery is never used to conceal petti- 
ness of thought, and he has ever held pure ideals as 
well as beautiful pictures before the eyes of the 
English people. 



ENOCH ARDEN 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster; then a mouldered church; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 



S 



lO 



Here on this beach a hundred years ago 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest Httle damsel in the port. 
And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 15 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets. 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 



14 ENOCH ARDEN 

To watch them overflow' d, or following up 20 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

x\ narrow cave ran in beneath the clilT; 
In this the children play'd at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 25 

While Annie still was mistress; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 
"This is my house and this my little wife." 
" Mine too," said Phihp, "turn and turn about:" 
When, if they c^uarrell'd, Enoch stronger made 30 
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears. 
Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company. 
And pray them not to c[uarrel for her sake, 35 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past. 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40 
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; 



ENOCH ARDEN 15 

But she loved Enoch: tho' she knew it not, 

And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 

A purpose evermore before his eyes, 45 

To hoard all savings to the uttermost. 

To purchase his own boat, and make a home 

For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last 

A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

A carefuUer in peril, did not breathe 50 

For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 

Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 

On board a merchantman, and made himself 

Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a Hfe 

From the dread sweep of the down-streaming 

seas : 5 5 

And all men look'd upon him favorably: 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May 
He purchased his own boat, and made a home 
For Annie, neat and nesthke, halfway up 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward the 

mill. 60 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. PhiHp stay'd 



i6 ENOCH ARDEN 

(His father lying sick and needing him) 65 

An hour behind; but as he dimb'd the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand. 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 70 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd. 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 75 

Crept down into the hollows of the wood; 
There, while the rest were loud in merry- 
making. 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a hfelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, 81 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil; 
With children; first a daughter. In him woke, 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 85 
To save all earnings to the uttermost. 
And give his child a better 1)ringing-u[) 



ENOCH ARDEN ^7 

Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her sohtudes, 9° 

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 95 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down. 
Far as the portal- warding lion- whelp 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 100 

Then came a change, as all things human 
change. 

Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 

Open'd a larger haven: thither used 

Enoch at times to go by land or sea; 

And once when there, and clambering on a mast 

, In harbor, by mischance he sHpt and fell: 106 
A hmb was broken when they Hfted him; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade no 



i8 ENOCH ARDEN 

Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightm.are of the night, 
To see his children leading evermore 115 

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd 
^'Save them from this, whatever comes to me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 1 20 
Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? 
There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 
SaiPd froi^ this port. Would Enoch have the 
place? 125 

And Enoch all at once assented to it. 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 130 

And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long- pondering on his plans; 



ENOCH ARDEN 19 

To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she 

brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in 

trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — ■ 
So might she keep the house while he w^as gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder ? go 141 
This voyage more than once? yea, twice or 

thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich. 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 145 

Have all- his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 150 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his hmbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled father-like, 



20 ENOCH ARDEN 

But had no heart to break his purposes 155 

To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will: 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 160 

Many a sad kiss by day by night renew' d 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her, 165 

Her and her children, let her plead in vain; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend. 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his 

hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 170 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe. 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and 

rang, 175 



ENOCH ARDEN 21 

Till this was ended, and his careful hand — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the 

last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 181 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears. 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 185 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in- God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes. 
Whatever came to him: and then he said, 
"Annie, this voyage by the grace of God igo 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear lire for me. 
For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — i()5 

Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 



22 ENOCH ARDEN 

And make him merry, when I come home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 200 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard. 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things, 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl, 206 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are wise; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know^ I 211 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

''Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on 
yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day), get you a seaman's glass, 215 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted. 



ENOCH ARDEN 23 

Look to the babes, and till I come again, 

Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 220 

And fear no more for me; or if you fear 

Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds. 

Is He not yonder in those uttermost 

Parts of the morning? if I flee to these 

Can I go from him? and the sea is His, 225 

The sea is His: He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 230 

When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 
"Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the 

child 
Remember this? "and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead cHpt 
A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept 235 

Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps 



24 ENOCH ARDEN 

She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 240 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; 
She saw him not : and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him ;245 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of hes, 250 

Nor asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding ''what would Enoch say?' 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her -wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold 1255 
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance. 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 261 
With all a mother's care: nevertheless, 



ENOCH ARDEN 25 

Whether her business often call'd her from it 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 265 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was, 
After a lingering — ere she was aware — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
The Kttle innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 270 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
"Surely," said PhiHp, "I may see her now. 
May be some little comfort;" therefore went. 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 276 

Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief. 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 280 

Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept, 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
''Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply, 



26 ENOCH ARDEN 

"Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 286 
As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to her; 

" I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 290 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 295 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours: that was his 

wish 
And if he come again, vext will he be 300 

To find the precious morning hours were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave. 
If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives ? — 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 306 

Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if vou will, when Enoch comes again, 



ENOCH ARDEN 27 

Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 310 

Now let me put the boy and girl to school: 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answer'd, "I cannot look you in the face; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 315 

When you came in my sorrow broke me down; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down; 
But Enoch Hves; that is borne in on me; 
He will repay you: money can be repaid; 
Not kindness such as yours." 320 

And Phihp ask'd 
"Then you will let me, Annie?" 

There she turn'd, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him. 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face. 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wTung it passionately, 
And passed into the Httle garth beyond. 326 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 



28 ENOCH ARDEN 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books, and every way, 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 330 
Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 336 

Or conies from the down, and now and then. 
With some pretext of fmeness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable. Hour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 340 

But PhiHp did not fathom Annie's mind: 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 345 
From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him, 
And call'd him Father PhiHp. Philip gain'd 351 



ENOCH ARDEN 29 

As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd lo them 

Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 

Down at the far end of an avenue, 355 

Going we know not where: and so ten years, 

Since Enoch left his hearth and native land. 

Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 
To go with others nutting to the wood, 360 
/Vnd Annie would go wath them; then they 

begg'd 
For Father PhiHp (as they call'd him) too: 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying 

to, him, 
"Come with us. Father PhiHp," he denied; 365 
But when the children pluck 'd at him to go, 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish. 
For was not Annie with them? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 371 
Fail'd her; and sighing, "Let me rest," she said: 



30 KNOCK ARDEN 

So Philip rested with her well-content; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 375 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 38c 

But PhiHp sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow: at last he said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, 385 
How merry they are down yonder in tlie wood. 
Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. 
"Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her 

hands 
At wliich, as with a kind of anger in him, 
''The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost! 
No more of that! why should you kill yourself39i 
And make them orphans quite?" And Annie 

said 
" 1 thought not of it: but — 1 know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 



ENOCH ARDEN 31 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
"Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 396 

And it has been upon my mind so long. 
That tho' I know not when it first came there, 
I know that it will out at last. Oh, Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 400 

That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then ■_ — let me speak: 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so quick — 
Perhaps you know what T would have vou 

know — 406 

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children: I do think 
They love me as a father: I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine own ; 410 
x\nd I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years, 
We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon it: 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 415 
No burthen, save my care for you and yours: 
And we have known each other all our lives, 
And I have loved vou lomrer than vou know." 



32 ENOCH ARDEN 

Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke: 
"You have been as God's good angel in our 

house. ■ 420 

God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" 
" I am content," he answer'd, " to be loved 425 
A little after Enoch." ''Oh," she cried. 
Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year: 430 

Oh, wait a httle!" Philip sadly said, 
"Annie, as I have waited all my life 
I well may wait a little." "Nay," she cried, 
"I am bound: you have my promise — in a 

year ; 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine ? " 435 
And Philip answer'd, "I will bide my year.' 






Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose, 440 



ENOCH ARDEN 33 

And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil; 
Then all desended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently, "Annie, w^hen I spoke to you, 445 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answered, "I am bound." 

She spoke; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household wa}-s, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 451 
That he had loved her longer than she knew. 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again, 
And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. "Is it a year?" she 

ask'd. 455 

"Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again: 
Come out and see." But she — she put him 

off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was 

bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with his 

eyes 460 



34 ENOCH ARDEN 

Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
"Take your own time, Annie, take your own 

time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 465 

With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance. 
Till half another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 470 

Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too, 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 476 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 480 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 



ENOCH ARDEN 35 

Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on 

on her 
Sharp as reproach. -485 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign, "my Enoch, is he gone?" 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a hght, 490 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to tind a sign. 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
"Under the palm-tree." That was nothing to 

her: 
No meaning there: she closed the Book and 

slept : 495 

When lol her Enoch sitting on a height. 
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun: 
''He is gone," she thought, ''he is happy, he is 

singing 
Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 501 
'Hosanna in the highest'.'" Here she woke^, 



36 ENOCH ARD^N 

Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 
"There is no reason why we should not wed." 
"Then for God's sake," he answer'd, ''both our 
sakes, 505 

So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells. 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 510 
She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 515 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state, 
Being with child: but when her child was born, 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd. 
Then the new mother came about her heart. 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 521 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd 
The ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forth 



ENOCH A^DEN 3? 

Irhe Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 525 
And almost overwhelm'd her, y unvext 
She shpt across the summer cx die world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fau:, 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 530 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 53^ 

Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 
Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-head 539 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: 
Then foUow'd calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of ''breakers" came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 545 

But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken sp:irs, 



38 ENOCH ARDEN 

These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 



No want was there of human sustenance, 550 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a 
hut, 555 

Half hut, half native cavern. So the three. 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill- content. 

. For one, the youngest, hardly more than ]x)y, 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 560 
Lay Hngering out a five-years' death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone 
The two remaining found a fallen stem; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 565 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's warning, 
"Wait." 



ENOCH ARDEN 39 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 570 
The hght flash of insect and of bird. 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coiled around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world, 755 
All these he saw; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face. 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of w^heehng ocean-fowl. 
The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 580 
The moving whisper of huge trees that bra^ich'd 
And blossom 'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave. 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 585 

A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east; 590 

The blaze upon his island overhead; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west; 



40 ENOCH ARDEN 

Then the great stars that globed themselves in 

Heaven, 
The hoUower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 595 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him, haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, 

known _ 600 

Far in a darker isle beyond the line; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 605 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves. 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 610 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteou? hateful isle 



ENOCH ARDEN 41 

Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 615 
Lets none who speaks with Him seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 620 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields. 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay :626 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 630 
In search of stream or fount, and fiU'd the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his mountain 

gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary. 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad. 
Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem'd. 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 636 



42 ENOCH ARDEN 

They knew not what: and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long-bounden 

tongue 640 

Was loosen'd, till he made them understand; 
Whom, when their cas'ks were hll'd they took 

aboard 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly. 
Scarce- credited at first but more and more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it; 
And clothes they gave him and free passage 

home ; 646 

But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his country, or could answer him. 
If questioned, aught of what he cared to know. 
And dull the voyage was with long delays, 651 
The vessel scarce sea- worthy; but evermore 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded m.oon 
He hke a lover down thro' all his blood 655 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: 
And that same morning officers and men 



ENOCH ARDEN 43 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: 660 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 
But homeward ^ home — ^ what home? had he 

a home ? — 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that after- 
noon, 665 
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on before. 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 670 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin })iped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down: 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom; 675 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly 
stolen, 



44 ENOCH ARDeM 

His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 680 
Where Annie hved and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born; 
But finding neither hght nor murmur there 
(A bill sale of gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking, "dead, or dead to 
me!" . 685 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went. 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crust antiquity, 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 
He thought it must have gone; but he was gone 
Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 691 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 695 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous. 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the port. 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 700 



ENOCH ARDEN 45 

His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her Uttle ones to school, 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
Of PhiUp's child : and o'er his countenance 705 
No shadow past, nor motion: any one. 
Regarding, well had deem'd he feU the tale 
Less than the teUer; only when she closed, ^^ 
"Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically, ^^ 710 
Repeated muttering, "cast away and to;" 
Again in deeper inward whispers, "lost!" 

But Enoch yearned to see her face again; 
"If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 721 

The ruddy square of comfortable Ught, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house. 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 



46 ENOCH ARDEN 

The bird of passage, till lie madly strikes 72- 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward; but behind, 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 
Flourish'd a Httle garden square and wall'd ; 730 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it: 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on .the burnish'd board 
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 740 
Phihp, the slighted suitor of old times. 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 745 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, 



ENOCH ARDKN 47 

Caught at, and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 750 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 755 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love — 760 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all. 
Because things seen are mightier than things 

heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and 

fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 765 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot. 



48 f:NOCH ARDEN 

And feeling all along the garden wall, 

Lest he should swoon and tumble and be 

found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 771 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his 
knees 
Were feeble, so that falling proae he dug 775 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

"Too hard to bear! why did they take me 
thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle. 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 780 

A little longer! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too! must I not speak to these? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 785 
Never: no father's kiss for mc — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 



ENOCH ARDEN 49 

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a 
Httlc 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 
Back toward his sohtary home again, 790 

All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
"Not to tell her, never to let her know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 795 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the wall, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 
Kept him a living soul. "This miller's wife," 
He said to Miriam, "that you spoke about, 801 
Has she no fear that her first husband fives?" 
"z\y, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, "fear enow! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort;" and he 

thought 805 

"After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, 
I wait His time;" and Enoch set himself, 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 



50 ENOCH ARDEN 

Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 8io 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall iSarks, 
That brought the stinted commerce of those days; 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 815 

Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could Hve; and as the year 
Roird itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gende sickness, gradually 820 

Weakening the man, till he could do no more. 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 825 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking, "after I am gone, 830 
Then may she learn 1 lov'd her to the last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said 
*' Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 



ENOCH ARDEN 



SI 



Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 835 
"Dead," clamor'd the good woman, ''hear him 

talk; 
1 warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 
"Swear," added Enoch sternly, "on the book." 
And on the book, half -frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 840 
"Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?" 
" Know him?" she said, " I knew him far away. 
Ay, ay, 1 mind him coming down the street; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her: 845 

"His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
I think I have not three days more to live; 
I am the man." At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
" You Arden, you! nay — sure he was a foot 850 
Higher than you be." Enoch said again, 
"My God has bow'd me down to what I am; 
My grief and solitude have broken me; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice been 

changed — 855 

I married her who married Philip Ray. 



52 ENOCH ARDEN 

Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back. 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 86c 
Fast flowed the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; 
But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 86^ 
Saying only, "See your bairns before you go! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, xArden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied: 

''Woman, disturb me not now at the last, Syc 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again; mark me and understand. 
While I have power to speak. I charge you 

now 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 87; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she lay her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom 1 saw 
So like her mother, that mv latest breath 



ENOCH ARDEN 5.i 

Was spent in blessing her and praying for 

her. 
\nd tell my son that I died blessing him. 88 1 
\nd say to PhiHp that I blest him too; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
;Vho hardly knew me hving, let them come, 885 
[ am their father; but she must not come, 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
\nd now there is but one of all my blood, 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: 
rhis hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, 890 
\nd I have borne it with me all these years, 
\nd thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 
Vly babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone. 
Fake, give her this, for it may comfort her:895 
[t will moreover be a token to her, 
rhat I am he." 

He ceased; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 900 
She promised. 



54 KNOCH ARDEN 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 905 

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad. 
Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a sail! 
I am saved ; " and so fell back and spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 910 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



NOTES 



6. Down. Stretches of elevated land near the sea 
covered with fine turf. 

7. Barrows. Burial mounds found in England and 
supposed to have been made by the Danes when they in- 
vaded England. 

18. Fluke. The broad part of the anchor which fastens 
to the ground. 

26. Still. Always. 

39. Either. That is, both. 

51. Leagues. About three English miles. 

53. Merchantman. A trading vessel. -- 

54. Full sailor. That is, an e.xcellent seaman. 

68. Feather. That is, where the woods began to grow 
thinner. 

94. Osier. A basket made of willow twigs. 

96. Market-cross. An old stone cross is found in the 
market-place of many English villages. 

98. Lion-whelp. That is, a family shield bearing a lion 
over the door of the hall, or English country house. 

99. Ye%ctree. In old time gardens yew-trees were of ten 
pruned into the form of a peacock. 

^ 55 



56 NOTES 

TOO. Friday Friday is a fast day in the Catholic Church 
and the eating of meat is forbidden. 

103. Haven. Harbor. 

123. Boatswain. A ship's officer who has charge of the 
crew. 



i86 
222 
223 
226 
326 
337 
339 



Offing. That part of the sea remote from shore. 

Mystery. That is, the mystery of prayer. 

Cares. See I. Peter, v., 7. 

Uttermost. See Psalm 139. 

Sea is His. Psalm 95. 

Garth. An enclosed yard or garden. 

Conies. Rabbits. 

Charitable. That is, so thai it might not seem like 



a gift of charity. 

370. Just, etc. Compare this line with 67. The repeti- 
tion serves to bind together the parts of the poem. 

376. Whitening. Hazel nuts are a grayish white when 
ripe. 

415. Kin. Blood relations. 

416. Burthen. Burden, care. 

470. Calculation. Impatient because their predictions 
did not come true. 

491. Ploly Book. The practise of opening a book and 
interpreting the first passage on which the eye falls as a 
personal message is very ancient. Christians of all ages 
have used the Bible in this way. 

494. Under, etc. Judges, iv., 5. 



ENOCH ARDEN 57 

499. Hosanna. See Matt., xxi., 8. 

527. Summer. The equator. 

528. Cape. Cape Horn. 

532. Golden isles. Jai)an and the islands off the coast 
of China. 

533. Oriental. Eastern. 

563. Stem. The trunk of a tree. 

568. Laivns. Long stretches of green turf. 

572, Convolvuluses. \ kind of traiUng [)lant; the 1)ind- 
wecd. 

575. Belt. The ocean which, according to the ancients, 
encircled the world. 

582. Zenith. That portion of the heavens directly over- 
head. 

597. Paused. He had become so much a part of nature 

601. Li7ie. The equator or the equinoctial circle. 

638. Sweet ivater. Fresh, not sea water. 

657. Ghostly. Because of the white chalk cHffs of the 
south coast. 

671. Holt. A thicket, a wooded hill. 

671. Tilth. Cultivated land; land that has, been turned 
over by the plough. 

688. Timber-crost. A house made of plaster crossed 
with timber, like Shakespeare's birthplace. English vil- 
lages contain many such houses. 

724. Signal fire. Such means of warning or summons 



58 . NOTES 

were common in days when travel was difficult. The blaze 
fascinates the bird as candle light the moth. 

728. Latest. Last. 

733. Shingle. Gravel. 

789. Tranced. A state in which he lost all consciousness 
of outward things. 

803. Enow. .\ country expression for "enough." 

810. Cooper. One who makes casks and barrels. 

865. Bounden. An earlier form of the participle "bound." 

91 1 . Costlier. This was the only way in which they could 
show the reverence that his sacrifice inspired. 



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